


Kiss the Canvas

by captainshellhead, vibraniumstark



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Noir
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Noir, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Developing Relationship, M/M, Misunderstandings, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Secret Identity, WIP, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:02:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainshellhead/pseuds/captainshellhead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibraniumstark/pseuds/vibraniumstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve meets Tony at a charity boxing match, they don't exactly part on the best of terms. But then, there's a war on, he's fighting Nazis and chasing magic artifacts, and Steve has more important things to focus on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whippy/gifts).



> So we’ve been sitting on the idea for this story for a while now and wanting to do a Marvel Noir story for longer, but until seeing [Whippy's awesome art](http://whipbogard.tumblr.com/post/61709230710/1940s-boxing) we just didn’t have the motivation to really start it. Be sure to go give Whippy some love :)
> 
> It’s going to be a WIP for a while, because we have a lot of other stories right now (least of all the Cap-IM BB) and also lots of exams and weekend trips coming up. If you don’t like long gaps between updates, I would suggest waiting until it’s complete. 
> 
> Also, just a note for this chapter: we knew nothing about boxing before we researched it, so keep that in mind. Thanks to starknip for betaing!

Somehow, perhaps by sheer force of will, Steve managed to arrive on time for work.

It had been a close thing. The walk from his apartment to the arena wasn’t terrible, and he knew all of the shortcuts to make the trip easier. He would have been _early_ , if he hadn’t come across a man hassling the flower vendor on the corner.

He’d roughed Steve up a bit, but in the end he left her alone. She’d offered Steve a rose as thanks, but he politely declined. A florist didn’t make any money giving away free flowers, and he wouldn’t have anyone to give it to, anyway.

Besides, a rose would look a little out of place here, and he didn’t need to draw any more attention to himself as he tried to sneak in without his boss noticing. Luckily, he wasn’t really needed until the fight started—only one of the _many_ perks of having the glamorous a job of making sure the boxers didn’t slip in their own blood during a match.

Steve didn’t particularly like the job—even getting it had been more accident and desperation—but it could have been worse. There wasn’t a lot of work for a guy his size, and he’d been lucky enough to find something that paid well enough that he could afford to take a few art classes on the side, even if he did feel guilty parting with the money every time tuition bills rolled around.

Steve hadn’t liked boxing before he started working here—hadn’t particularly disliked it, either—but it was impossible to go more than a few matches without picking up an appreciation, at least, for the sport.

When he heard that they were planning a charity boxing match, he’d instantly volunteered, expecting a couple of glass jawed rich men to throw a few punches, and then probably break for Champagne. Short, easy, and not much of a mess to clean up afterwards. Maybe even the chance to go home early and get a head start on his figure drawing assignment.

When they found out later that it was _the_ Tony Stark from _Marvels_ who was boxing for charity, and that tickets were going for a hundred dollars a piece at the cheapest, Steve had gotten half a dozen offers to trade shifts, but there was no way he was going to miss this, no matter how good their offers were.

Stark’s opponent was supposed to be one of the best boxers in Germany. They’d flown him in for the sake of the match, and it was actually going to be televised for those who couldn’t attend themselves. Steve had caught sight of the man on the way inside. He was built like a brick house, all blond-hair, blue-eyed and solid muscle. Personally, Steve didn’t think he liked him, but the boxer was apparently very popular back home.

The seats were filling quickly. Steve sat down on one of the fold-out chairs meant for the press, the coaches, the referees and everyone else that needed access to the ring.  
A few minutes later, the arena was nearly packed as more fans were let into the stadium.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

Steve jumped, and was already shaking his head no when he caught sight of the woman who’d asked. She was a stunner, dressed to the nines in an all-white dress and not looking at all like she belonged at a boxing match. Steve sincerely hoped her dress wouldn’t be ruined by the end of the night.

She dropped her bag into the seat between herself and Steve and sat, propping a notebook on one knee, and if Steve had to guess he would say she was probably a reporter.

“Have you ever been to one of these?” she asked suddenly.

“I work here,” he said. She hummed, and he was about to ask why she asked when she said, “Who do you fancy?”

“Stark, of course,” he said, almost without thinking, and he could see that she was laughing at him for the haste of his answer, but it didn’t make it any less true.

“ _Marvels_ fan?” she asked.

“I like the art,” he replied. She, surprisingly, seemed put off.

“But not the writing?”

“No, no," he said hastily. "I like the stories too." He wasn't quite sure why that would upset her. “Finlay’s a hell of a writer, uh, pardon the language, ma’am, I just—” He wasn’t sure how to explain that he like the art because he was an artist without sounding arrogant, or giving her more information than she probably wanted or needed, “like the art.”

Suddenly the noise in the arena intensified, quickly resolving itself into cheering. Steve’s head shot up a little more eagerly than he’d intended, and he might have been embarrassed if he hadn’t been distracted by the sight of Tony Stark stepping out of the tunnel. Tony was wearing a dark red robe, loosely cinched by a gold belt. He wasn’t posturing the way some of the boxers did, though he did wave to the crowds, enticing another bout of screaming. Steve recognized Rhodey and Mr. Jarvis walking in behind him. They’d both made regular appearances in _Marvels_ over the years, and while they didn’t look exactly like their illustrated characters, _Marvels_ occasionally published photographs when the opportunity arose.

They made their way over to the corner closest to Steve, where several chairs were set up for them. They would be starting soon—the referee was already in the ring waiting. Tony’s opponent exited the tunnel on the other side of the arena, amidst a mixture of cheers and jeers from the crowd. Stark was clearly the fan-favorite here, if not because of _Marvels_ , then certainly out of patriotism. Most people wanted to root for the American, in the end.

Tony dropped the robe and hefted himself up into the ring. Both the announcer and his opponent gave him an odd look but quickly looked away again. Tony didn’t pay them any attention, turning and draping himself over the ropes to say something to Rhodey.

Steve’s eyes widened marginally, gaze going straight to Tony’s chest. There was a shining circular disk embedded in his chest, right over his heart. Steve had never seen anything like it.

Steve leaned forward in his seat to get a better look, and the reporter leaned back at the same time. He glanced at her a little curiously. She wasn’t even looking at Stark, still scratching away at her pad. Steve wondered for a moment if maybe she’d missed it, but no, she cast a quick glance at the ring and then back down again.

That was odd, to say the least. That metal plate in his chest seemed exactly like something a reporter would be interested in, but she had already moved on to observing Tony’s opponent. Steve cast a furtive glance down at her notebook.

 _November 14th, 1941_ , it read, _with our last expedition leading to a dead-end—quite literally, for what resistance we encountered along the way, and nearly so for us—we returned to New York with the promise of new information on the location of the gauntlet. In exchange: a favor…_

Steve looked up in shock. He recognized the writing style, the content. This woman was writing a _Marvels_ story, he was sure of it. He glanced around, but...there didn’t seem to be anyone else with her, so that must mean…Steve looked at the page again, careful not to let her notice. It _did_ look like Frank Finlay’s handwriting, from those rare snippings that made it into the magazine for authenticity. He tried not to let his surprise show on his face.

He supposed it made sense. Steve knew plenty of people who were quick to exclaim that journalism—and for that matter, adventuring—was not a good fit for a woman. Steve didn’t agree, and Finlay was clear proof of it, but he figured writing under a pen name would certainly make publishing a lot smoother.

She glanced up at him then, perhaps feeling his gaze on her or perhaps just by chance, and Steve quickly looked away. He suddenly had so many questions for her, but...he probably shouldn’t have looked at her notes in the first place. It felt like prying. After all, he hated it when people leaned over his shoulder to watch him sketch, and he imagined writing would be similar. He tried to look casual and not give himself away.

He turned back to the ring. It looked like they were about to start. In his corner, Tony bounced on his toes energetically, gaze shifting around the ring from the ref to his opponent and back. He flicked a little glance over toward the reporter, but his gaze caught Steve’s instead. He smirked, and Steve blushed, a little embarrassed to be caught staring.

Stark was much more handsome than he’d ever looked on any magazine, even in the photographs, and he was surprisingly light on his feet. Tony looked like he was itching to go, not in the least concerned that his opponent had a fair few pounds on him. Maybe it was just bravado, but if the stories in _Marvels_ meant anything, it was that Stark shouldn’t be underestimated. Stark’s opponent didn’t seem at all concerned in his corner as he watched Tony impassively. The ref stepped up, ready to begin, and Tony's opponent took a fighting stance while Tony seemed content to watch him, arms loose at his sides.

The bell rang, and Stark’s opponent sprang forward immediately. Tony let him come, stepping back into a fighting stance at the last moment.

Steve grinned, and the fighter faltered as he moved to throw his first punch. He’d leapt forward too quickly, hoping to get the drop on an inexperienced opponent, but in doing so he’d moved to attack what he thought was his weaker side.

But the stance Tony took wasn’t an orthodox one. Tony was a southpaw.

By the put-out surprise on his face, his opponent hadn’t known that. It was poor planning on his part. Your opponent’s fighting style was definitely something you learned while training, so Steve guessed he hadn’t prepared for the charity match as well as he should have. (Steve was fairly sure there was an issue of _Marvels_ that mentioned that Tony was left-handed. He had a copy, somewhere. He assumed this guy wasn’t a fan).

Stark wasn’t going to let him get away with underestimating him. Before he could recover from his mistake, Tony stepped into his space. Leading with two quick jabs from his right, he forced him back, and his opponent brought his glove up just in time for a left cross to glance off to the side. His opponent backed off quickly, and Stark flashed a sharp grin and laughed—actually _laughed_ , and okay, that was asking for it.

His opponent bristled, and Tony just shrugged.

Tony looked...well, he looked like he was just messing around. Steve glanced back over to Tony’s corner, where the rest of his team was. Mr. Jarvis didn’t look at all surprised, though Rhodey was scrubbing at his forehead, looking every bit the long-suffering cornerman. Finlay was still scribbling dutifully in her pad.

His opponent came back at Tony fiercely, trying with several quick jabs before shifting to come at him from the side. Tony bobbed and weaved beautifully, but everything he threw at the man was blocked. After his mistake, his opponent was keen on using his size, as well as his extra reach, to his advantage. Tony was doing a good job of rolling with the punches, lashing out whenever he was given an opening and managing to drive him back a good few feet.

They circled each other for a moment, and then he came at Tony again, aiming a strong jab right at Tony’s face. He didn’t quite manage to bring his glove up in time, and a shocked gasp traveled through the crowd as it connected solidly with his nose.

Steve sucked in a little breath and winced sympathetically. For a moment Tony looked like he was about to hit the mat, but he somehow kept his feet under him. He stumbled back a bit, came so close to dropping that the ref was already moving in to give him the Eight Count, and then managed to get his legs under him again. The ref backed off, and Tony brought his gloves up. He smiled. His teeth were stained pink around the mouth guard.

His opponent didn’t back off, jumping into the fight the moment the referee was out of the way. He had a solid right hook, but it was somewhat less effective with Tony blocking with his dominant side. Tony was getting a little lazy with his right hand, and he rolled a few punches off the shoulder. His guard slipped, and he took two solid jabs to the ribcage. His opponent stepped into the punch, and when Tony moved to step out of range his back hit the ropes.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the round. Steve let out a relieved breath. That hadn’t looked good for Tony.

Tony staggered back to his corner. Mr. Jarvis was apparently cutman today, because immediately after the round ended he had Tony planted on a stool so he could fix him up. Finlay hopped up from her seat and hurried over to the ring, and Steve followed her.

Rhodey and Tony were already bickering while they approached. Tony was breathing hard, and the way his chest rose and fell was mesmerizing. Steve shook his head and forced himself to look anywhere else. He wasn’t exactly being subtle.

"You need to quit screwing around, Boss. This guy's a professional boxer. He'll do worse than break your nose if you don't shape up," Rhodey said.

"My nose isn't broken," Tony said indignantly, though he prodded it lightly as though to double-check. Jarvis swatted his hand away.

"Your ego's gonna be in a couple of minutes," Rhodey predicted, "and then where will we be? You know Nick's not gonna tell you shit if you lose."

"Just having a little fun, Rhodey. That's all," he said. He glanced to the side and smiled at Steve (okay, probably at Finlay), though the gesture seemed to signal he was done arguing about it. There was a rag and pail next to the ring—clean this time, thankfully—and Steve picked it up before ducking under the ropes.

Miraculously, hardly any blood had actually made it to the mat. Steve set about cleaning it away quickly. Most of it was in the middle of the ring, where Tony took the hit, but there was a bit over by Tony’s stool, too.

Steve stole a glance at Tony as he worked. The cut didn’t seem so bad once Jarvis had cleared the blood away. He stuck a little butterfly bandage over Tony’s nose, then gave him a solid slap on the back. Tony huffed.

“How’s the pain, boss? Scale of one to ten,” Finlay asked. Steve gave her a confused look, because she sounded almost...pleased. Which was ridiculous—she was probably just concerned.

Tony scoffed, and Steve couldn’t help but stare. “Pepper, ask me after, or _use your imagination_.”

“I want it to be authentic,” she replied smartly, and then when he only scowled at her, she said, “At least a nine, then.”

“Quit moving,” Jarvis said, placing an ice pack over the spot, “and breathe through your mouth.”

Tony rolled his eyes and sent a sly look Steve’s way, as though he’d been a part of the conversation the whole time. Steve felt his face heat, worried he’d been caught looking. Tony started to smirk, and then winced as the movement pulled on his split nose.

Steve jerked back to cleaning the ring, and he was probably flushing an embarrassing shade of red—it was hot in here, no one would notice, he’d deny it if they did.

Tony's opponent was on his feet immediately once Steve stepped down from the ring. Tony batted Jarvis's hands away and stood quickly, so as not to give the ref any ideas that he wasn't fit to continue, and settled into a fighting stance.

Tony’s demeanor had changed, Steve noted. He wasn't bouncing around quite so much, gaze focused forward. Steve didn't know what that meant, whether Tony was on the ropes or not.

He hoped it didn't. Steve had been pretty confident that Tony was going to win the match, and he hadn't even known if he was any good. He'd looked like he knew what he was doing during the first round, at least. Steve wondered if he'd had any training in boxing. It seemed like the kind of thing that would come in handy during his travels, but then, Steve knew first-hand that something as structured as boxing wasn't necessarily the best way to scrap in the real world. Tony probably knew that, too.

When it came down to it, he wasn't a professional boxer regardless of what kind of training he might have. Tony could actually _lose_. But then, Tony _had_ seemed pretty confident. Finlay… no, Pepper had a little knowing smile on her lips.

The bell rang, and Steve turned his attention back to the ring.

Tony closed on him quickly, no hesitation in his movements. He lead with his left hand, following two jabs with a right cross. If his opponent was caught off guard he didn’t show it, blocking then pulling back and moving in again deftly. Tony kept advancing, refusing to give up the advantage, pummeling the man with quick punches meant to wear him down.

His opponent was trying to find an opening, but Tony wasn’t letting him have it. They were only into the second round of the match, but Tony was completely in command as he weaved in and out of his opponent’s reach, forcing him to keep up with him as they danced around the ring.

The give-and-take dragged on, each of them delivering a few blows and taking some themselves, but Tony was on the offensive now, steadily backing his opponent into the corner of the ring.

Tony feinted left, then crossed right with a staggering blow to the abdomen. His opponent sagged under the blow, as the breath left him, and Tony saw his opportunity. He reeled back for a wild punch, put all his weight into one final haymaker straight to his jaw.

Steve imagined he could hear the impact of his fist even above the screaming cheers. Tony’s opponent went down in a heap. Tony swayed as he watched him fall, hair mussed, sweat-streaked and glistening, but he didn’t get back up.

Steve leaned up in his seat to look. He was out cold.

A deafening roar swept the crowd as the ref raised Tony’s glove in victory. Tony turned his gaze up and sent a smug look up toward the boxes. Steve wondered who he knew up there, but the look didn’t last long before he turned his attention back to the crowds.

Steve waited for Tony to look his way, but he didn’t.

It was stupid to be disappointed. Tony didn’t even know him, and Steve was just...projecting, probably all through the match. He sighed and watched as Tony made his rounds through the congratulations, showboating just a bit, before Rhodey and Jarvis dragged him away to the locker rooms.

Pepper reached underneath her seat to pick up her purse. “A second-round KO,” she said, nodding approvingly. “That’ll be good for magazine sales.” She gave Steve a nod and stood up from her chair, brushed the imaginary dust off her dress (still pristine white) and followed Tony out into the tunnels.

Steve hopped up to climb into the ring, waiting only long enough for everyone to clear out of his way. By the time he’d finished and dropped the dirty pail and rag beside the exit to the back rooms, the arena was much quieter, with only a few straggling fans and the janitorial staff left dotting the stands.

Steve headed back to his seat to grab his jacket, when he saw the notebook still sitting beneath the chair two away from his own. He stooped to grab it, flipped it open to the first page, and sure enough it was full of scribbles in the same swooping handwriting he’d seen before, some pertaining to _Marvels_ and some just random observations.

Steve fiddled with the notebook for a few moments, waiting to see if she would come back looking for it, but he was pretty sure that she wasn’t going to—she probably wouldn’t have even forgotten it if she valued it too greatly.

He could chase her down, try to catch her before she left the building, but if he’d been planning on doing that, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time waiting. Steve headed toward the locker rooms. He knew the way by heart, having had the pleasure of cleaning those, as well. Tony’s locker room was closed, but he could see light spilling through the crack underneath the door.

Steve knocked once.

“Door’s open,” Tony shouted immediately, voice muffled by the door. Steve hesitated only a moment before he let himself inside.

Tony was at the closet in the back corner of the room, still wearing the robe he’d left the ring in, and although Steve couldn’t see his face, he was probably bruising spectacularly, judging by the size of the ice pack he had in his hand.

“I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever—” He turned, and dropped off immediately. Tony _had_ been expecting someone else, Steve realized, and suddenly he felt like this was an enormous intrusion.

“Oh,” Tony said dumbly. “I’m sorry, I thought you were...” Steve was seriously considering dropping the notebook and running, and maybe Tony realized that, because he shrugged casually.

“Well, come in. And close the door, I don’t need any photographers snapping a photograph of—” he motioned to the whole of his face, which was indeed bruising spectacularly, and then backtracked, squinting suspiciously, “You’re not a photographer, are you?”

Tony gave him a long, sweeping look, like he was searching for a hidden camera, and it was wishful thinking to believe anything more, but Steve couldn’t shake the feeling, anyway. He stepped fully inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and held up the notebook.

“I was sitting next to, uh—”

“Pepper,” Tony said, sounding amused. “I know, I saw you.”

“Right. She left this at her chair,” Steve pressed on. He held out the notebook for Tony to take, but he just kept looking amused. “I thought maybe you could get it back to her.”

“Maybe,” Tony agreed, but he still didn’t move from his seat in the corner. He was packing ice into a towel, and didn’t pause in what he was doing either. “Depends on what she’s written about me. You can just set it on the desk.”

Steve dropped it where he was told, and then hesitated, not sure if Tony would want him to leave (he certainly didn’t want to) or if he wouldn’t mind if he stayed. He could see the metal plate on his chest quite clearly through the robe, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it was for.

“A repulsor pump,” Tony said. Steve frowned at the non-sequitur.

“What?”

Tony tapped on the plate with a fingertip. “It’s a repulsor pump,” he said, “and you’re staring.”

“Oh,” Steve said. Tony probably thought he was something else, with how many times he’d been caught staring in the past hour alone. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“It’s fine,” Tony said. “I’m not ashamed of it.”

“I don’t think you should be,” Steve said. “But...” He hesitated, and Tony urged him on with a look, “do you really think it’s safe to just leave it uncovered? To let people see it and everything?”

Tony hummed. “The way I see it, if anyone is close enough to get at the repulsor pump, they’re close enough to know it’s there. And more importantly, I don’t want anyone to think I have something to hide— _that_ would make it a target.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “I guess that makes sense.”

Tony nodded. “So,” he said, with something just short of a leer slipping into his expression, “you know me. Do I get the pleasure of your name?”

“Steve Rogers,” Steve said. Tony smiled.

“Steve,” he said, musing. “Okay, who are you, Steve?”

“I just work here,” Steve said. Tony snorted, and Steve didn’t even have time to grow defensive before Tony continued.

“I find it hard to believe that you’re _just_ the kid who mops up after the boxers and their rowdy fans,” Tony said. Steve hesitated, not really expecting a question quite so… soul searching. Tony was an eccentric fellow, he’d give him that, but weren’t the rich usually?

“I... paint,” Steve offered, “and draw, some. I go to art school.” Tony made an interested noise.

“You any good?” Tony asked, pressing the ice pack against his shoulder. Steve shrugged. “Modest, okay. Well, I’ll tell you what: if you ever get tired of wiping blood off the floors come down to _Marvels_. I can get you an interview, at least and if you are any good, I’d wager we pay better than these schmucks do.”

Steve knew for a fact that he wasn’t going to do that—he didn’t need the charity, and if he was going to get a job he wanted it to be because he’d earned it, not because the boss had strong-armed them into hiring him. He also didn’t think that Tony would agree with his reasoning, so he just nodded.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Maybe after I finish school.” Tony looked satisfied with that answer, at least, and Steve thought he was going to leave him alone on the matter.

“Not one for charity, huh?” Tony prompted after a beat, obviously teasing. “Not that that’s what I was offering. If you aren’t any good you certainly wouldn’t get the job.”

“I’m fine with charity,” Steve said. “Just for a cause that actually needs it. Like the match tonight.”

“The match was for charity, sure,” Tony said. “The Red Cross will be pleased. But it was a propaganda stunt more than anything. You have to know by now that it’s only a matter of time before we join the war in Europe.”

“Propaganda?” Steve frowned sadly. “You mean he took a dive?” Disappointment dropped heavily in his chest, and he quickly pushed it down. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the match might be rigged in Tony’s favor, but it made sense. A rich novice beating the best boxer in Germany was a little far-fetched, even if you considered his exploits in _Marvels_.

“Of course not,” Tony corrected quickly. “I just knew I would win. I don’t really care about propaganda stunts and the like—not really my shtick—but I do believe in a favor for a favor.”

“Oh,” Steve said, trying to ignore the relief that admission brought. “Like what?”

“I know someone who specializes in public opinion, and _they_ know where I can find something I’ve been after for a very long time.”

Steve’s interest piqued. It was definitely something for _Marvels_ —something old and valuable and probably rumored to have mystical powers. “What is it?”

“A gauntlet,” Tony replied. He shrugged off his robe, dropping the ice onto the desk beside him, and hung the robe over the back of the desk chair. “You’ll forgive me if I can’t tell you more.”

Steve shrugged. “I’ll read about it when the issue comes out, probably.”

“Probably,” Tony said. “If it carries on for that long.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, with a little more alarm than he’d intended to convey, “You’re quitting?”

“Well,” Tony said at length, “if we go to war like I know we’re going to, I’m not sure the magazine will be able to continue past the censors. Or at the very least, there’ll be changes. But no, I’m not quitting the game, even if we _do_ go to war.”

“You’re not going to help?”

“I already _help_. I’m not going to be put under anyone’s thumb,” Tony said. He must have seen Steve’s disapproving look, because he added, “Well, what would you do?”

“I’d join up, of course,” Steve said.

“Little on the small side to be a soldier,” Tony said.

Steve bristled. “Size isn’t everything,” he said. Tony chuckled, and Steve got the distinct impression that he’d missed the joke.

“I’ll give you that,” Tony said, a little knowing smile on his face. Steve wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

“Maybe I should go,” Steve said, ignoring the way Tony’s gaze snapped back to him at the admission. “It was nice meeting you.”

“No, wait,” Tony said, and Steve, despite himself, hesitated at the door.

“Actually, I need your help, first,” Tony said, and Steve tried to resist the little thrill that thought gave him. It wasn’t like he was going to go help on some _Marvels_ -worthy adventure.

“Help me hook up,” he said. “Jarvis designed the repulsor pump to be easier to charge with two people, and since both he and Rhodey are still angry at me for showboating, I’ve got no one else to help me out.”

“I don’t—think… Can’t you do it yourself?” Steve stumbled. As interesting as it was, Steve wasn’t particularly keen on messing with something he didn’t understand, especially when it was the only thing keeping Tony’s heart beating.

“Well, it’s delicate work and my elbow doesn’t bend that way,” Tony said. He made a show of demonstrating. “I’m a leftie, but you already knew that, if you watched the match.”

“Yeah,” Steve said reluctantly. “Okay.” He took a half-step closer, peering at the little metal plate and the hole it used to be covering. He didn’t recognize any of the parts inside, and his hands stayed firmly at his side.

“Kid, unless you’re telekinetic, you’re not going to do much good all the way over there.”

Steve did step closer then, and the hole in his chest seemed even less natural up close, where he could see the walls were lined with metal (not that he would have preferred the alternative) and laced with wires.

“See the terminals in the back?” he asked, holding up a white and a red clip. “They’re color coded—piece of cake.”

He took the opportunity to step a little further into Tony’s personal space than was strictly necessary, because what better excuse than this? Tony smelled like good cigars and cologne, and beneath that faintly the smell of sweat and blood from the fight, but it was oddly charming, and even more so, oddly appealing.

Steve clipped the first lead on without a problem, even though he could feel Tony staring at him so intently the top of his head started to itch, but the second one was a little more difficult—Steve didn’t know how Mr. Jarvis did it, if his hands were any bigger than Steve’s.

“Okay,” Steve said, when he’d finally clipped the second one in place, “I think I—”

“Steve,” Tony said, and Steve had scant a second to glance up before he was kissing him.

It was rough, the scratch of Tony’s mustache against his skin, and not at all like kissing a dame. His lips were soft though, and warm. Steve’s brain stalled for a moment, hands frozen in place, and it wasn’t until Tony put a patient hand on the back of his neck, gently, almost encouraging, that he finally moved. Steve pushed up on his toes to deepen the kiss, both hands against Tony’s chest to steady himself.

Tony made a pained noise, and Steve jerked back so quickly that he nearly threw himself into the desk. He recovered himself a second later, both hands framing the repulsor pump.

“Oh, god, _your heart_ , did I—”

“No,” Tony laughed, just a shade of self-deprecating, and nudged Steve’s hand out of the way so that he could close the casing as far as it would without removing the cables. “My nose. Just—getting a little over-enthusiastic.”

Steve felt himself flush at the words. “Sorry—I—”

“Tony,” someone said, as the door slammed against the far wall. Steve jumped at the bang, and he didn’t miss Tony shuffling backwards a few inches, not that it would take a genius to figure out what they’d been doing. Oh, god. That was stupid. They were both men. They’d been kissing, not in public but in a public place, at least, and they hadn’t even locked the door. He felt panic rising in his chest.

And for some reason, Tony grinned, completely unabashed.

Steve turned toward the door to look, stepping further away and trying to subtly smooth the wrinkles out of his clothes. It was Pepper, standing just inside the doorway with her hands on her hips, an oversized jacket now draped over her shoulders. He let himself relax, somewhat.

Pepper sighed, and leveled Tony with a glare. “Again. Why am I not surprised?”

  
Steve felt a little beat of jealousy at that, _again_ , like Tony had done this a thousand times. He probably had. Every reputation had some truth to it, after all, some more than others.

It probably didn’t mean anything.

“Steve was just dropping off your notebook,” Tony said. He grabbed the pad off the desk and tossed it to her from across the room. “Be careful where you leave that thing, Pepper. Don’t want the wrong person getting a hold of it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Pepper said flatly, but she tucked the notebook into her bag. “Thank you, Steve,” she added, a clear dismissal if he’d ever heard one. She was giving him a peculiar look, not at all approving, like she was trying to size him up.

She tugged her jacket up a little further around her shoulders, and it just slid back down. The size was too big on her—it looked more like a man’s blazer than something to wear over a dress. Steve glanced at Tony, humiliation flaring hot in his cheeks. Tony didn’t glance away once from Pepper, leaning against the desk familiarly, then to the coat-rack in the corner—empty—and suddenly it struck Steve, like a physical blow.

_They were together._

And he’d just been…

“Excuse me,” Steve said, ducking around Pepper to head for the door. Neither one tried to stop him, though Pepper quickly shut the door behind him on his way out. That was horrible.

Humiliating.

Steve clenched his fists, temper flaring. Tony _knew_ that Pepper would be coming back, and soon. She had his jacket for Pete’s sake. And...and, he did it anyway, so that she would walk in on them, with Steve none the wiser. He probably thought Steve was some joke, too, running out like that. It was _wrong_ to play with people like that. Steve felt sick.

Guess it was true what they said about meeting your heroes. Steve didn’t think he would be following _Marvels_ anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve quit the boxing arena a week later.

It had nothing to do with Tony. His boss was threatening to cut his pay again. What Steve was making at the arena was only just covering rent and classes as it was, and he really couldn’t afford to work for any less. 

After a few days of asking around (and he always hated job hunting—too many employers giving him the hairy eyeball when he asked if they had any openings, like they expected him to croak at any minute), but Steve eventually found another job in a warehouse on the harbor.

The building was huge and dimly lit, echoing with the combined voices of all of the men working the line, and the occasional tune spat out of a old radio in the break room. The work was repetitive but tiring and somehow Steve always managed to come home covered in grease from the machine’s working parts, even though Steve didn’t even work with the machines. All things considered though, he was lucky. He’d known a lot of guys stuck looking for work a lot longer. 

So, he’d quit the arena and moved on the greener pastures. Or, better paying pastures, at least.

The walk to work took him an extra half an hour every morning, but the pay was another twelve cents an hour higher than his last job. Even if every other day he had to get up at four thirty in the morning for the early bird shift, it was worth it to be able to keep all of his classes. 

And as it was, he was saving money on all of those _Marvels_ he wouldn’t have to shell out for. His original collection had been jammed into the trashcan angrily the moment he’d gotten home from Stark’s match, then rescued and packed, now slightly wrinkled, out of sight under his bed a few hours later. 

(He couldn’t throw them away...it would be a waste.)

So he packed the memory away. And he was over it, mostly, even if he had to resist the strong urge to tear out a few (most) of the pages in his sketchbook so that Tony would _stop looking at him like that_. He pushed it to the back of his mind.

 

 

And then he found the first letter as he was coming home from work. 

He actually did a double-take when he spotted it inside his mailbox. Steve _never_ got mail. The envelope was unnecessarily fancy, and the edge was crimped where the mailman had accidentally closed the corner of the envelope in the door. Steve left little grease thumbprints on the paper as he turned the letter over in his hands, and he wiped them uselessly on his pant leg. His full name was neatly inked across the front, with the address to the arena crossed out and replaced with Steve’s in sloppy handwriting below it.

It was stamped with a _Marvels_ return address. Steve glowered at the letter once he realized who it was from. He brought it upstairs and immediately shoved it into his dresser drawer in a huff (even though he was itching to take a peek inside). Then, he pretended to forget about it, going about his life as usual right up until he found another letter slipped under the crack in his door. The second one looked no different than the first, and Steve finally gave in to his curiosity and opened them. 

They were invitations to two different events, both the type of fancy black-tie things that Steve could hardly imagine attending. The first date had already passed—the letter had only arrived two days in advance of the charity gala it was inviting him to—and the second was less than a week away. 

Steve had no idea what to make of it. Neither of them actually came with any kind of personalized note, and if not for the fact that Steve had only ever met the two of them, anyone from _Marvels_ could have sent them. Of course, he knew who they were from (Steve couldn’t imagine Ms. Potts being the one to send them, much less without a note), but what he didn’t know was _why_. 

What the hell was Stark thinking? Admittedly they’d...been doing okay, up until Miss Potts had shown up, but Steve was not going to be a part of anyone two-timing their dame, whether she was aware of it or not. Steve didn’t think his leaving in a rush was possible to interpret any other way than “I want nothing to do with this”.

Tony Stark had a lot of nerve, that was for sure.

 

 

Steve was sitting on top of a stack of sealed crates at work, picking at half a cheese sandwich and praying that the men at the conveyor belt would be able to keep their pace for once and let him take his full (if rather late) lunch break in peace, when America joined the war. 

There was a moment of dead air, after the announcer turned the report over to New York, long enough to draw the attention of the entire room. Steve had worried the radio was broken. Looking back, it was more like the radio had hesitated at the gravity of the news.He’d known it was coming. It wasn’t surprise so much as a sour sense of dread coiling in his guts as he listened to the news report. 

The radio crackled uneasily in the silence of the room after the announcement, the only noise the creak of machinery and the radio host promising to pass on any further updates about the attack. Steve swallowed hard and set his sandwich down on the paper he’d wrapped it in, his appetite suddenly gone. The line rattled on, the parts sliding by untouched in the stillness.

It took them a long time to get back into the swing of work, everyone wanting to crowd around the radio, waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was no doubt, they had said, that a declaration of war would be granted.

 

Steve made his very first attempt to enlist on his way home from work, and the recruiter turned him away before he could even get a foot in the door. Steve wasn’t one to give up, though—he’d just have to get more creative.

 

 

In the meantime, Steve was receiving a letter almost every week, with fancy stationery and scented paper inviting him to parties and art galleries and conventions all over New York. Each letter from Tony was stamped with a Marvels return address, and not a single one came personalized. After the landlord’s daughter, Millie, had caught him throwing the first invitation away, she’d suggested he try selling them. 

A lot of people, it seemed, would be interested in an invitation to the kind of closed-doors events these letters were for, and if the way her eyes sparkled was any indication, Steve probably could have found his first customer right there. 

Instead, Steve began shredding the invitations before he tossed them—he could have used the money but...he was always a little too honest for his own good—and he was growing more irritated with every invitation he received. 

At least he wasn’t paying for the postage.

 

 

There was another letter in his mailbox when Steve was on the way upstairs, fresh from his third failure to pass the health exam to enlist, and Steve snatched it up, grumpy and already plotting ways to falsify his medical papers—what was a few more fake papers, after all— and stuffed it into his pocket with a little irritated huff—or maybe he was just out of breath. 

He had just enough time to strip out of his work clothes and toss them aside for washing when there was a knock at his door. 

"Steven," Mrs. Thompson called, knocking again.

"Just a minute, Mrs. Thompson," Steve replied, wrestling back into a pair of trousers a size too big. He knew it wouldn't do any good. Mrs. Thompson was pushing eighty years old, shorter even than Steve, and stone deaf. She could hardly hear someone shouting in her ear, let alone through a wooden door.

Sure enough, she continued on as though she hadn't heard him. "Steven, there's a telephone call on the line for you."

"A telephone call?" Steve asked aloud, cinching up a belt as tight as it would go. He'd had to punch an extra hole to make it fit him. He stumbled over his too-long pant leg in his haste to get to the door. "A telephone call?" he repeated, much louder, "From _who_?" 

There was a single phone in the reception of the building, technically for the use of all of the residents, though Steve was fairly certain he'd never seen anyone but Mr. Hammond's daughter, Mille, using it. Steve didn’t own his own telephone (he didn't have anyone to call), and in all the time that he'd lived in this building, he'd never even touched the one in the lobby. He hoped they hadn't called collect.

Mrs. Thompson smiled sweetly at him and shrugged. He hadn’t expected her to know. The operator had probably had to scream into the receiver just to make sure Mrs. Thompson heard Steve’s name correctly. Steve sighed and stepped into his shoes quickly—the building's phone was on the first floor, just inside the lobby, and it was not a place Steve wanted to be walking barefoot. 

He yanked the door shut behind him, the wood so warped he had to throw his whole weight into it to get it to latch shut. His apartment was on the third floor, and he was wheezing a little by the time he'd hurried down to the first. 

Mrs. Thompson tutted at him disapprovingly. She was always fussing about his health.

The phone was dangling from the hook, tapping lightly against the wall as it swung back and forth. He snatched it up, trying not to sound too out of breath. "Hello?" he answered.

"Steve Rogers?" The woman on the other end of the line had a pleasant voice. Steve began to nod, then realized she couldn't see him.

"Yes?" he replied, unsure.

"Please hold, sir," she said.

“Uh, okay?” he said as the line switched over to softly playing music.

Mrs. Thompson was leaning over him, trying to press her ear to the other side of the receiver, as though she could actually hear anything said at a normal conversation volume, anyway. He angled the receiver a little bit her way indulgently, and she grinned toothily at him.

"Mr. Rogers?" The line switch back over as the music died away. "This is Bambi Arbogast from _Marvels_ , just calling to confirm your interview for tomorrow afternoon."

"Interview?" Steve asked, feeling very much like a parrot lately. "I didn't have any interview—"

"I have you down for three o'clock in Conference Room B-2, Mr. Rogers. Would you like to reschedule?"

"Um, no that's—well, maybe. What am I interviewing for, exactly?"

There was a noticeable pause. “Our embellisher quit two days ago. Mr. Stark said that he’d spoken with you about the position already.” 

“Mr. Stark did,” Steve said. “Tony Stark?”

“That’s right,” she said, sounding not at all surprised that this was the first Steve had heard of it. "I'm getting the sense that you weren't aware of the recommendation," she finished.

"No, I was not," Steve said in a measured tone. He couldn’t believe this. “Do you know how he got this number?”

“The directory, probably,” she said. “Listen, don’t worry about it. Mr. Stark does this sort of thing all the time. He’s… eccentric like that.” 

Eccentric was a nice way to put it. Steve would have gone with annoying.

“Do you have Mr. Stark’s telephone number?” Steve asked. 

She tsked. “No, I don’t. I have his offices, but I doubt you’d be able to get a hold of him from there. Do you want the number anyway? You could leave a message.”

“No, that’s all right,” he said. He pulled the crumpled envelope out of his pocket, turning it over in his hands. “I’d rather speak with him directly.” 

She sounded skeptical when she responded, “If you insist. Would you like to keep your interview, Mr. Rogers?” 

Steve almost said yes. Almost, except for the stubborn lump of pride sitting in his chest, and the anger at Tony for even putting him in this position in the first place, when Tony knew that he didn’t want to be set up with an interview. 

“No, thank you,” he said, ignoring the exasperated look on Mrs. Thompson’s face. Out of everything, that _would_ the part she was able to pick up. “I’m sorry for the mix-up.”

“Well, we both know it wasn’t your fault,” she replied. “Have a nice day, Mr. Rogers.” The receiver clicked, and Mrs. Thompson swatted him on the arm.

“Now why would you say no?” she said.

“I have a job,” Steve said. 

“So stubborn,” she sighed, patting him on the arm fondly. She plucked at the corner of the letter in his hand. “Going to take this and rip it up too?”

“No,” Steve said, not at all surprised that she knew what it was. It seemed like his neighbors all knew what was going on in his life, even before he did, sometimes. “I think I’m going to keep this one.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “I’ll pretend you’re not just trying to appease this old lady.”

“I’m not,” Steve said, tearing open the envelope. “Promise.” 

The invitation was for a fund raiser, looking to collect donations for Tony’s next expedition. Maybe his pockets weren’t as bottomless as he let on… or maybe he was just looking for alternative funding so he didn’t have to pay out of pocket. The invitation must have been sitting in his mailbox for a few days, because the party was for the next night.

Five ‘o clock seemed a little early for one of Tony Stark’s parties (even if it was supposed to be a fundraiser, Steve had heard enough in the papers to know what kind of an event to expect). Steve would just have to make sure that he arrived late enough that Tony was actually there. 

_Hopefully_ Tony would show up at all. If not, Steve would have to find another way to explain to him that he had overstepped. Until then, he needed to find something appropriate to wear. He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself again. 

 

 

Stark Mansion was much more impressive up close than in any photograph. Cars lined the drive all the way to the gate, and Steve felt a little out of place walking up to the mansion on foot. It seems as though every light in the house was lit, the shadows of partiers casting their silhouettes against the windows, and Steve could hear the music all the way from the street. 

The party seemed to be in full swing by the time Steve arrived at seven, and he could only hope that it would be quick and easy to find Tony. He was starting to reconsider the confrontation altogether, except that Steve had the sneaking suspicion that this ridiculous harassment wouldn’t end until Steve explicitly asked Tony to stop.

He hovered outside the front door, wondering if he should knock and if anyone would hear him if he did, when the door swung open and poured a stumbling drunk couple out onto the stoop. Steve was surprised to see Jarvis a few steps behind, holding their coats and looking completely displeased with them. He dropped the coats on the top stair. Steve half expected to see the couple angry, but it seemed they were too preoccupied with tackling the stairs themselves to notice. 

Jarvis paused in the doorway, staring at Steve pointedly for a moment. “Well,” Jarvis said, “in or out?” 

“Oh,” Steve followed him inside, pulling the invitation from his pocket. Jarvis took it from his hand, and dropped it in the trash beside the door. “I… didn’t realize you were Tony’s butler?”

Jarvis scowled, and Steve immediately realized he’d made a mistake. “Engineer, yes. Personal assistant, perhaps. _Not_ a butler.” 

“Right. Sorry,” Steve backpedaled. “Is Tony… here?” 

“Somewhere,” Jarvis said, after a long pause. 

Steve considered asking Jarvis to point him in a direction, but he already seemed completely fed up with both the party guests and Steve’s questions, so Steve just nodded. 

“Thanks, I’ll find him myself,” Steve said. He glanced around—the room wasn’t as packed as he’d expected, with the amount of noise that was seeping into the street. It seemed to be mostly music and pomp, as though the party goers wanted to give the illusion of a larger, more grandiose event. 

Steve took to wandering the corridors somewhat aimlessly. The house really was beautiful, everything extravagantly furnished and obscenely expensive. Some of the art on display looked worthy of a museum, jarringly in contrast with the tipsy party-goers dotting the halls. Half of the people Steve stopped to ask after Tony hadn’t the faintest idea where to find him. Some of them looked lost themselves. Eventually he was able to narrow it down to a single wing of the house through pure trial-and-error.

He found Tony in one of—one of!—the mansion’s sitting rooms. The room was dimly lit and hazy with cigar smoke that irritated Steve’s lungs. A record player spun quietly in the corner, out of the way of the guests.

Tony had a ring of men and women lounging on the sofas around him, and he glanced around to see that Pepper wasn’t among them. All of them looked respectable, at least, as though they were discussing a business deal—maybe they were, it was a fundraiser—if he looked past the drinks in their hands and the flush in their cheeks. That and, as Steve came to realize once he stepped closer, the completely inappropriate conversation. 

Steve did his best not to intrude, but the group still noticed him almost immediately. He probably looked sorely out of place in a party full of solely rich socialites (and Jarvis, it seemed) plus himself.

At first, Tony didn’t seem to recognize him, but then all at once his expression cleared into a broad grin, and he was waving Steve over to sit with the rest of his company. 

“Steve! I was starting to wonder if I had the right address,” Tony said. “It’s good to see you,” he added, gaze lingering just a bit too long. Steve bristled, and Tony continued, “Were you getting the other invitations all right?”

“I got them,” Steve said shortly. He shook his head when Tony tried to wave him over again. “Look, I—I’m actually not here for pleasure. About the Marvel’s interview you—”

“The Marvels interview!” Tony said, as though he’d forgotten. “That was today? How did it go?”

“It wasn’t today, Tony,” Steve said, almost certain that Tony was too drunk to hear or notice the irritation in his voice. Instead, to his surprise, Tony paused mid-phrase to fix him with a searching look.

“What, then?” Tony asked. 

Steve crossed his arms and gave the rest of the group a pointed look. They were very carefully looking everywhere but at Steve, and Steve couldn’t decide if he should be offended or not. “Can I talk to you in private?” Steve asked.

“Why?” Tony demanded, suddenly defensive, and it was obviously the wrong thing for Steve to ask. Tony might be a little more drunk than Steve thought. “Anything you have to say, you can say now.” His crowd was already disbursing, though, perhaps sensing the tension in the room. “Go on, then,” Tony demanded, “regale me.”

“Fine. You set me up with an interview at Marvels,” Steve said, and before Tony had a chance to respond, “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that Marvels needed an artist and, hey, I happen to know one,” Tony said. 

“You knew that I wouldn’t want you to, and you did it anyway,” Steve said.

“You have a funny way of showing gratitude,” Tony said. 

“This isn’t gratitude,” Steve said, not in the mood for his sarcasm. “I never _asked_ you to do that. You went behind my back and—I hardly know you.”

“In my experience, no one ever means it, when they say they don’t want charity.”

“Well, I meant it,” Steve said firmly.

“It was a gift,” Tony snapped.

“It was insulting. If I’m going to get a job at _Marvels_ , I want it to be because I earned it, not because the boss said so. You want to help me out? You could have _told_ me that there was an opening and let me make my own decisions.”

Tony stabbed a finger at him. “You’ve got a real rotten attitude, Rogers. Pride comes before fall, you know.” 

“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that you think you can just… buy people, and treat them like dirt and pretend that the rules don’t affect you because your pockets are deep enough!” Steve took a few steps toward the door, already shaking with rage and unvoiced frustration. “Stop sending me letters. Stop… pretending we’re _friends_.” 

“Running out again, are you?” Tony said, voice a little too disinterested to be sincere. 

Steve bristled, “You brought me here, Tony. You. And you’re hardly in a position to cast stones.”

“I was just trying to help,” Tony said, and before Steve could clarify that no, he was talking about Pepper, Tony barreled on, “You’re the one who decided that you needed to tell me how awful I am _in person_. At a party I invited you to, no less.” 

Steve wasn’t sure what it was that came over him, but he paused at the door. 

“I don’t need your help. And anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m going to enlist,” Steve said. It sounded like a challenge, even to him, and Steve supposed that it was. Tony seemed to stutter to a stop for a split second, and then the sneer was back on his face in an instant.

“You can try,” Tony said. “I already told you. You may as well have 4F stamped to your forehead.” 

Steve scowled. “I’ll find a way.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tony said. “A normal guy would thank his lucky stars that he didn’t have to go to war. I’d say you’d regret it if I actually believed they’d let you in.”

“I can’t tell if you’re a coward or an asshole,” Steve said, backing out the door. He shouldn’t have bothered mentioning it—he didn’t have anything to prove, so why stop? Stupid. 

“You’ve read my adventures. Take a guess.” Tony called after him, and then as an afterthought, “Hey, send the girls back in, will you?”

“Screw you, Stark,” Steve half-turned to call back. He slammed the door behind him.

“Now that’s music to my ears,” someone said, just a second too late for Steve to halt his step. He bumped into the man in front of him with a start, thankfully managing to keep at least a modicum of grace. The man looked vaguely familiar—as though maybe Steve should recognize him from the papers?—but Steve couldn’t place the face. He was old enough to be greying at the temples, and otherwise, unremarkable. 

“Steve Rogers,” the man said, only confusing Steve more by knowing his name. “Just the man I’d like to see.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, resisting the urge to straighten his jacket, “Do I know you?” At this point, he didn’t even care if he seemed anxious to leave. 

“We haven’t met,” he said. “I’m an... acquaintance of Stark’s. He might have mentioned you.”

“Well, I don’t really care what he has to say about me,” Steve said.

“Good. Stark’s a pain in the ass, and I don’t really care what he has to say either,” he said. He shrugged casually, fixing Steve with a challenging stare. “I’ve got a proposition for you. One Stark wouldn’t approve of.”

Steve straightened, just a little irritation showing through. “I make my own decisions,” he said. “Tony doesn’t get a say. We hardly know each other, really.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said, extending his hand for a handshake. “Son, my name is General Fury. How would you like to serve your country?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is sort of in the interim/set up for plot. Expect a bit of a time skip in the next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

_June 6th, 1942_

They’d set up camp just outside a small village, smack in the middle of the Unoccupied Zone of Southern France. Captain America had been assisting in running training exercises, putting the freshest American recruits through their paces alongside the French recruits they’d received over the last few days. 

Personally, Steve thought it was a waste of time. There was no reason for his Commandos to be here. _His_ men didn’t need training exercises—they’d seen the real thing, plenty of times—and they sure as hell didn’t need Captain America in a base so out of the way. 

Steve knew that it was mostly a bureaucratic thing, and that his team would just be stopping off here until they received their new orders from command. They’d spent the last several months hopping from Hydra base to Hydra base, with just enough hits and misses to keep them on their toes and command on their asses. 

He supposed that they could all use the break, but after only a few days of this his men were already itching to get back to where the action was. Steve could agree with the sentiment. Polishing up the new recruits was not what he’d signed up for, and the urge to get out there and do something actually _useful_ just made him tired in a way no mission ever could.

 

 

There was the May issue of _Marvels_ lying on his bedroll when Steve pulled back the flap to his tent, with a very neatly printed “Read Me” card propped on top.

“Gee, I wonder who this could belong to,” Steve deadpanned. He frowned and shot the rest of the soldiers in the room a look, glancing very pointedly at where Bucky had flopped down on his own bed, innocently leafing through his own copy of the magazine. 

Steve scraped the magazine off the bedding with his foot and then sat down with a heavy sigh, dropping his shield on the ground next to him. What he really wanted was to get out of his uniform, change back from Captain America to just plain old Steve Rogers, but as far as everyone else was concerned, Steve Rogers wasn’t _on_ this assignment. Captain America was, and since Bucky was the only person who’d (accidentally) learned that they were one and the same, the mask was staying on for the foreseeable future.

Bucky made a little wounded noise and sprung up to rescue the magazine from the ground, leaving his own magazine propped on his pillow (the June issue—Steve had no idea how he managed to get his hands on a copy so fast. It seemed like he had no trouble with it, even on the front). 

“Oh, come on, Cap,” Bucky said. “You’re the only person here who isn’t up on Marvels.”

“I am not,” Steve said. Steve had made the mistake of denying his interest in the magazine a little too sharply, once, and from there he’d piqued the sixteen year old’s interest. Now Bucky had taken it as a personal challenge to convince Steve to read them. He was absolutely certain that Steve was just being stubborn about it.

Steve couldn’t really think of a way to justify himself without explaining that _well, actually, I don’t like the guy because I made out with him once, back when I was ninety pounds soaking wet and actually stupid enough to believe someone like _Tony Stark_ would be interested in me, and he turned out to be a complete jerk_ , so he’d resigned himself to letting Bucky keep trying.

“Well, you may as well be,” Bucky said petulantly.

“Maybe I don’t want to read those kid stories, Bucky. Ever think of that?” Steve teased.

“They’re not _kids stories_ ,” Bucky snapped. “It’s a _men’s_ magazine.”

Dum Dum socked Bucky on the arm, laughing. Bucky swayed a little to the side with the force of it. 

“Relax, kid,” he said, “and cut Cap some slack.” Steve was about to thank him, when Dum Dum added, “He doesn’t like _Marvels_ because he doesn’t like fun. Everyone knows that.”

“You and I have very different definitions of fun,” Steve said.

“You’re going to regret not reading them,” Bucky sing songed.

“Really,” Steve said flatly, knowing that he was only encouraging him. “And why’s that?”

“Because Tony Stark is _here_ ,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, “and _I’m_ going to get an autograph.”

“What?” Steve hated the way his heart constricted in his chest. Tony was here? He tried not to let his surprise bleed into his expression, clenching his fist at his side. 

The _last_ person he wanted to see was Tony. Steve thought he’d scrubbed his hands of him—and managed to shake his unreasonable attachment to him—but if this was his knee-jerk reaction to hearing Tony was on site, that probably hadn’t worked as well as Steve thought it had.

“It’s true,” Gabe said. “I saw them come in this morning. That Finlay is a babe.”

“Potts,” Steve said, before he could think better of it, “and don’t talk about her that way.”

Bucky made a little affronted noise. “So you _do_ care about _Marvels_!”

“I don’t,” Steve insisted.

“Really? Then how’d you know Finlay is a pen name? Admit it, Cap, you like _Marvels_!” He bounced once on the bed. “I bet you’ve read every issue.”

“Nah, I bet he wasn’t _allowed_ to read them, even though he wanted to, and now he’s bitter,” Gabe offered. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve said. 

“No, how about: he always wanted to be an adventurer, but he never got to be one and he’s just jealous,” Bucky laughed. 

“That’s stupid,” Dugan said. “He’s Captain America, he goes on a new adventure every month.” 

“Good point,” Bucky said, and then his voice took on a distinctly teasing tone, “Maybe he _dated_ someone from _Marvels_ and it went _sour_.”

“Knock it off,” Steve said, a little too sharply, and in the beat of silence afterwards, he realized he’d made a terrible mistake, denying it too quickly.

“Holy shit, that’s it,” Gabe said, at the same time Bucky cried, “You really dated someone from _Marvels? Who_?”

“That’s none of your business,” Steve insisted. “I mean, I didn’t. Date anyone.”

“Oh come on, Cap,” Bucky started, going back to flip through the magazine as though he could draw some clue from it, “I’m not letting you off that easy—” Bucky trailed off as the flap of the tent was pulled aside. 

Nick Fury stood in the doorway of the tent, and everyone stared at him blankly for a moment before they seemed to remember themselves, jumping to salute him properly. Nick directed his attention to Steve.

“Captain,” Nick said. “a word?” He turned meaningfully to the rest of the group, who took their cue to leave.

Steve watched the commandos file out, not without grumbling. He wasn’t surprised to see that Bucky stayed put, leafing through his magazine as though he hadn’t heard the general’s orders. Issues with authority was the just the tip of the iceberg, in his case, but Steve couldn’t ask for a better partner. 

Not to mention that, even if it had been those same issues with authority that had allowed Bucky to discover his secret identity in the first place, it was nice to have someone he knew he could trust without having to keep secrets from him.

“General,” Steve said. “What can I do for you?”

“The _Marvel’s_ team is leaving tomorrow morning for Italy to...” Nick glanced Bucky’s direction, and Steve could see the slight upset of his shoulders as he sighed, “meet with a private collector. Stark needs an escort, and security detail.” 

Bucky scrambled up to his feet. “Tony Stark! Really?” he asked, abandoning his fake-disinterest in a moment. “When do we leave?” 

“Not you,” Nick said. “Just him. As much as I hate to admit it, Captain America appearing in _Marvels_ would be a good boost for bond sales, and Stark needs a security detail. The rest of you are staying here.”

“I’m not babysitting Stark while my team stays here,” Steve said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh, yes you are.”

“Steve hates _Marvels_ ,” Bucky said matter-of-factually. “ _But I_ could go and Steve can stay—” 

“Not a chance, Kid,” Fury said.

“I’m not going,” Steve said stubbornly.

“Stark requested Captain America, personally.”

“Well, I didn’t realize you were in the business of making sure Stark gets everything he’s ever wanted,” Steve snapped.

Nick stared him down, and then to Steve’s surprise, he smirked. 

“I’ll let him know you’re unavailable, and assign someone else,” Nick said. He didn’t stick around to wait for Steve’s reply, already ducking out of the tent.

“Thank you, Sir,” Steve said, at the same time Bucky whined, “Aw, Steve.” 

“You could have been featured in _Marvels_!”

“I don’t want to be featured in _Marvels_ ,” Steve said, trying to convey that the conversation was _over_. As usual, Bucky either didn’t get the hint or, more likely, refused to accept it. 

“Ugh, Steve, you know we’re just training recruits, it’s not like we’re going on a mission.”

“I like training recruits,” Steve said. It was a lie—he would actually much prefer going to Italy. If only it weren’t Tony. Steve just didn’t think that he could work with him, not to mention how impossible it would be in Tony managed to recognize him—that would be _far_ too many questions to answer. It would be much better for a different security team to go.

“That is a lie. You’re a terrible liar,” Bucky said.

“Training is important?” Steve tried. Bucky stuck out his tongue, then seemed to decide it was too juvenile and squinted at him instead.

“Why do I even hang out with you?” Bucky asked. “God, you’re stubborn.”

“Well,” Steve said, just as the rest of his teams started filtering back inside. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

 

 

 

“What do you mean, he said _no_?” Tony shouted, perhaps a little too fervently. 

“Seems the captain believes there are more important things to do than babysit your team—his words, not mine,” Nick said, and Tony scoffed outright at the obvious _amusement_ in his voice. Tony hadn’t even wanted to ask for an escort—he hadn’t even wanted to _stop here at all_ , and would have much rather gone straight to Italy. 

They’d been following the trail of a mystical amulet that Pepper had caught wind of sometime during their last quest into North Africa. It was supposedly very old, and very powerful—powerful enough, it seemed, to make whoever wore it invincible. Or so the rumors went. 

Tony wasn’t sure if he believed any of that, but considering that the current owner was a Nazi sympathizer living in the heart of Axis territory, and Tony himself could put an amulet like that to good use, he was interested in finding out. The trail had lead them to a castle on the island of Ischia, off the coast of Italy. 

They’d set out from New York almost immediately, and had only happened to get word of General Fury and _Captain America_ of all people, on the base that was almost directly along their route to Italy. It was Pepper who suggested they try to recruit Captain America for a team-up issue of _Marvels_ —it would make for one hell of a special edition—and Tony had agreed, because he’d never thought Captain America would _say no_. Even that wouldn’t be a problem, except that now—

“We’ve assigned a new team to escort you in his place. They’re just as qualified,” Nick finished. 

Except now that they were here, Fury was going to _insist_ on sending someone along. For their own sakes, Tony was sure he would say, because they were _just civilians_. 

Of course that was bullshit. Fury always jumped at the chance to keep tabs on them (in case they found anything he wanted, no doubt), and wanted to make Tony’s life miserable in the process. Tony saw Pepper start to accept the offer, out of the corner of his eye, and cut in.

“Fine,” Tony said. “As long as they’re qualified, I don’t really care.”

“More qualified than you,” Nick said, and Tony pointedly ignored the comment. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning. Nine ‘o clock, sharp. Make sure they’re ready,” he said. Nick glared, obviously unhappy with the tone, and thankfully that distracted him, or he would have noticed the outright suspicious glare Pepper sent his way. Tony gestured toward the doorway, when it looked like Fury was going to stick around longer. 

Fury snorted, pulling the door open. “I’ll be sure they get their _beauty sleep_ before hand,” he said over his shoulder. Pepper waiting until the footsteps had faded before she turned to fix him with a look. 

“What was that?” Pepper asked. She stopped him before he could begin: “Don’t lie to me, Tony. You agreed _much_ too easily, and I know you better than that.”

“We’re not going along with this,” Tony said. “I’m not playing his games, and the last thing we need is a couple of Fury’s spies sniffing around.”

“What, Captain America is fine, but anyone else and they’re a spy?” Pepper said flatly.

“If you can’t trust Captain America...” Tony said, only somewhat joking. It was only in part that, he thought he could trust him, but mostly, it was sheer numbers. One man like Captain America wouldn’t be hard to keep out of the loop, but Tony couldn’t have eyes on an entire security team for the entire mission. It would only take one slip up for Fury to get his hands on the kind of information that Tony tried very hard to keep under wraps. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not working with Fury's people.”

“Yeah, I’d gathered that,” Pepper said.

“I didn’t even want to come here,” Tony reminded her. “The only reason—the _only_ reason I agreed, was because you said a team up would boost sales. You know what _won’t_ boost book sales? When it gets out that Tony Stark and his _Marvels_ team are hiring military escorts because they’re not brave enough to go it alone.” 

Pepper regarded him thoughtfully, so Tony continued. “Tell me I’m wrong. With Captain America, it’s a dynamic team-up. With a randomly assigned strike team, we’re going to look like frauds, and people are going to wonder if we’ve ever had a danger-fraught adventure that was actually _dangerous_.”

“I think the boss is right,” Rhodey added. 

Pepper sighed, “And you agreed with General Fury because… we’re leaving tonight.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, and Pepper groaned. “So better pack quickly—and discreetly, please. Besides, we’ve got Rhodey, and he’s always been more than enough,” he added, clapping Rhodey on the shoulder. 

“We probably don’t want to march into Italy with a full platoon of American soldiers, anyway,” Pepper said, as though consoling herself for her lost night of relaxation. “The man who owns the amulet is a civilian, but I doubt he’d be very receptive to what seemed like an invasion of his home.”

“That’s the spirit, old girl,” Tony said, already repacking what few items—mostly papers or books from his research on the amulet—he’d bothered to remove from his suitcase and scatter around the room. 

“You’re driving,” Pepper added. 

“ _I’m_ driving,” Rhodey corrected. “We’re not making that mistake again.”

“Right, well,” Tony said. “First, we should probably get a car.” 

There was a pause. “You don’t have a car?” Pepper asked. They’d taken Tony’s Zeppelin this far, so the question hadn’t really come up yet.

“Um,” Tony said. “Yes and no. I do have a car, but it won’t be here until tomorrow morning. Which is fine! We just have to go get it. Pepper, finish packing, Rhodey and I will come get you after we’ve… liberated our car.” He grabbed Rhodey by the jacket, tugging him along after him, and ignored the exasperated sigh from Pepper that followed him as the door swung shut behind. 

The inn they were staying in was tiny and poorly lit—the owners must have gone to sleep hours ago, and if there were other guests, Tony hadn’t seen them. 

“And where is this car, exactly?” Rhodey asked, once he was following after Tony under his own power.

“Wherever the army keeps the rest of their jeeps?” Tony tried. He took the stairs two at the time, and pushed out the doorway into the night-darkened street. There were no lights in many of the windows, and the streets themselves seemed eerily dark from the lack of unnecessary streetlamps. 

“So, under armed guard?” Rhodey offered. 

“Most likely,” Tony said. He knew where the base was—had visited that morning, actually, when he’d arranged for a car to be delivered to their hotel the next day. “Although armed guard is a bit of an overstatement…” he paused at Rhodey’s skeptical look. “You’ll see what I mean,” he promised.

He headed down the street, in the direction of the base, and though they passed a couple of cars heading to or from the base, no one spared either of them a second glance except once, when a private Tony distinctly remembered signing a colored print for paused in his rounds to wave. They came right up on the gates that enclosed the base’s surplus of vehicles, at Tony nearly laughed at how offended Rhodey looked at the lack of interference. 

“Relax, Rhodey. This is a good thing,” he said. He handed Rhodey the card he’d written the plate number on. 

“No one’s looked at us twice,” Rhodey said. 

“And why would they?” Tony challenged. “Don’t seem so disappointed, I’ll start to think you _wanted_ things to get complicated.” He gestured toward the gates. “The key’s under the mat on the driver’s side. I’ll stay here and keep a look out.”

“You sure about that?” Rhodey asked, finally accepting the card.

“Positive. No one but Fury’s going to think twice seeing me here,” Tony paused, “but hurry.”

Tony waited until Rhodey had slipped through the gates—that’s what Nick got, for assigning a sliding lock instead of a real one—and then leaned against the wall, trying to exude confidence. He decided to leave the gates standing open and pushed up against the walls, so that hopefully no one would notice, but so that Rhodey wouldn’t need to pause to open the gates if he ended up needing to make a quick exit. No one seemed to be paying attention—and Tony hardly expected them to, they weren’t anywhere _near_ hostile territory, and most of these recruits were on their very first assignment out of boot. 

Still, he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that someone was watching him, or the mounting nervousness every minute longer Rhodey took to fetch the car. He thought, at one point, that he heard a car door slam, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“Hey!” someone shouted, and Tony must have leapt a foot into the air. _Busted_ , he was so bad at covert, covert was so not his style—

“You’re Tony Stark, right?” they asked—the _kid_ asked, and Jesus, he must have been, like, twelve years old. It took Tony a moment to notice that he was holding out an issue of _Marvels_ , looking a little impatient. “I said, can I get an autograph?”

“Uh,” Tony glanced back at the gate nervously, but Rhodey either hadn’t found their vehicle yet, or knew better than to come back when a crowd had gathered. “Sure, kid. If you have a pen.”

“I’m not a kid,” the kid said, but he handed him a pen all the same. Tony scribbled a signature on the front cover. It was a recent issue—one Tony hadn’t even bothered to read before print, having been too busy networking for their last adventure. 

“Right… Aren’t you a little young to be in the army?” Tony asked. What kind of an operation was Fury running here, letting kids run around his base of operations.

The kid squinted at him, looking at Tony with irritation like he was a slow learner. “I’m not a kid—”

“Bucky? What’re you doing out here—” The voice cut off immediately, as a second figure stepped out of the tent. 

Tony barely held back a groan. Captain America, in full costume before him, and looking _very_ surprised to see Tony out and about. Immediately, it occurred to him that Captain America may have already been briefed on their schedule before he turned down the job, and if he had, he would find it _extremely_ suspicious, if Rhodey showed up with a jeep in the dead of night. 

The only thing to do, then, was to deflect in the best way he knew how. 

“Well, if it isn’t Captain America,” he said, stepping forward and, subtly, trying to steer them away from the gates in case Rhodey got back before he could get rid of them. “Mr. Too-Good-for-Babysitting.”

“What’re you doing on base?” Captain America asked, and _Jesus_ he sounded angry. Tony had a split second to wonder if he’d ever met him before, and possibly pissed him off, but no, Tony would remember meeting Captain America. 

“Signing autographs,” Tony said cheekily, and the kid beside him actually smirked and flashed the magazine his direction to gloat. 

“It’s the middle of the night,” he said slowly, but it didn’t sound accusatory, just… a lot like he wanted _Tony_ to leave. Maybe he was feeling guilty, for turning down Tony’s request—in which case, Tony was going to take advantage. 

“Well, _someone_ threw a hell of a wrench in our plan today, when he decided he was too good for escort duty,” Tony said, and he didn’t miss the slightly uncomfortable stance the captain took at that. “Who turns down the chance to be featured in _Marvels_ , anyway?” he added. 

“That’s what I said!” Bucky shouted, throwing his arms into the air and waving the magazine like a flag. 

“Fury already told you,” the captain said sternly. Behind him, Tony could hear the growing sound of a jeep approaching, and did his best to feign disinterest as he walked a circle around the captain, putting his back to the gate as he followed Tony with his eyes, “that I don’t have time to babysit your team. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but there’s a war on.”

“And I’m sure you’re doing a whole lot of good here,” Tony prodded, just as the fender of a jeep came into view. Tony caught Rhodey’s eye over the captain’s shoulder, and didn’t even need to nod before Rhodey was pulling away. Neither of them paid the jeep any mind. 

“At least I don’t spend my time chasing fairy tales and pretending it makes me better than the little guy,” Cap said. 

“Ouch,” Tony said, feeling—surprisingly enough—more offended than he’d expected to. “Tell me how you really feel.” Tony should have stormed off then, feign insult or find some other excuse to leave before they discovered the jeep was missing. Instead, he hesitated. “Have we met before?” he asked. 

“No,” the captain snapped, almost before Tony had finished the question, and then quickly added, “You should go home, Mr. Stark.” He turned to leave, ducking back the way he’d come before Tony had a chance to get the last word. Bucky made a face, mouthed what Tony was fairly certain was supposed to be “cranky”, before following. 

Tony hesitated only a moment more, wondering what the hell he’d done to deserve that kind of response, before high-tailing it back into town. 

Pepper and Rhodey had already loaded everything up and filled the tank by the time that he got there, and Tony climbed in before they could waste any more time. 

“We were just about to come looking for you,” Pepper said. “Rhodey said he saw you talking to Captain America.”

“It’s fine,” Tony said. “He didn’t suspect a thing. But we should go.”

They had an amulet to find.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up eleven months later with Starbucks*
> 
> Is that joke still funny? Probably not.

They drove through the night and well into the afternoon, stopping only to eat breakfast—a truly delicious combination of tough jerky and powdered milk—and switch drivers. When they were approximately a mile from their destination, Pepper directed them off the beaten dirt road through the trees, heading toward the beach instead. 

Despite their research and the fact that they’d driven all through the night to get here, they didn’t _actually_ have a plan yet. 

Part of the problem was that they’d been unable to find any good description on the layout of the land. The obvious start was to gather intelligence, and Rhodey had left with their jeep, intending to drive into the little village just a few minute walk from the castle. If he could figure out a way in, or gather any kind of supplies or information, then things would go a lot smoother from here on out. 

Still, Tony had to operate under the assumption that he was going to come up empty handed. He’d been gone for a while—but not long enough for Tony to worry. Rhodey could take care of himself, and anyway, this wasn’t a particularly hostile place. The war hadn’t found its way this far into the countryside. There wasn’t much trouble Rhodey could find for himself here. 

What his long absence _did_ tell Tony was that Rhodey was having little to no luck finding them a way into the castle, and if he couldn’t make a plan, Tony would have to come up with something himself. 

Tony pondered the castle in front of him. It was a beautiful location. The island had been transformed into a peninsula through a man-made stone bridge. The distance was too far to swim, and even if they made it to the island, scaling the walls would be impossible. It looked like the only way they would be getting inside would be on invitation.

Somehow, he didn’t think that was going to happen.

They could always get a boat. But boats were much more conspicuous, and there was still the matter of the wall—

“Tony,” Pepper said, smacking him lightly on the arm. She’d made herself comfortable leaning against the broad trunk of an old oak, prepared to keep watch after spending the night dozing in the back seat of the jeep. “Get some sleep.” 

“Can’t sleep,” Tony said. “Plotting. Besides, it’s the middle of the day.”

“You’ve been awake since yesterday,” Pepper said, “and we’re not going anywhere until Rhodey gets back.” 

“We’re not going anywhere even _after_ Rhodey gets back if I don’t come up with a plan to get us inside—”

Pepper gasped and swore under her breath, and Tony dropped off mid-sentence, eyes flying first to the road into the village, fully expecting to see Rhodey there. When he didn’t see anything, he turned back to Pepper, trying to follow her gaze. 

“What?” Tony asked, suddenly much more alert. “Are we blown?”

Pepper groaned, irritated, and Tony was happy to have her ire directed at someone else for once. 

“Something like that.” She gestured down the embankment, to an area just off the main road, and it took Tony less than a second to pick the moving spot of red, white, and blue out of the bushes.

“Ho-ly shit. What the hell are they doing here?” Tony whispered. He stared dumbfounded as Captain America and his sidekick slunk through the brush.

“They must have followed us,” Pepper whispered back. They watched the pair as they made their way closer to the water. Their progress wasn’t hard to track. Even when the two were covered completely by the tall grass, Tony could still pick out flashes of red and blue between the blades. 

When they reached the edge of the bushes, only a short dash away from the water, they paused. Tony could see them bickering, and Cap’s sidekick—the kid he’d signed an autograph for, in fact, now wearing a slightly less garish costume than Cap’s—started pointing toward the castle. 

"What are they doing?" Tony grumbled. "Planning to swim across?"

"Let's not find out," Pepper said. She nudged him, in the arm. “Go get them before they let everyone know we’re here.” 

Tony made a face. “I don’t want to get them, I want them to _leave_.” 

“You get them, or I will,” she said, “and if you make me climb down that muddy hill because you’re too stubborn to make nice with Captain America, you will _regret it_.”

Tony didn’t doubt he would. 

“Fine,” he groused, inching toward the hill. It wasn’t a very far drop, and he would be wide open to being spotted during the climb. It would be better if he just jumped. 

“Stand back,” Tony said, motioning for Pepper to make him room. Tony took a couple steps back, and took the short leap down, rolling. The ground was spongy and wet, and Pepper must have heard the soft splat he made when he hit the ground on the bottom, because he could hear her snickering. 

Tony rolled his eyes, wiping mud off his sleeves, and hurried over to where the others were hiding, lest they settle their argument and ruin Tony’s plans before he even had a chance to stop them. 

Neither of them noticed him approaching, too caught up in their bickering—and they were, in fact, arguing over whether they should swim for the castle or keep looking around the grounds, no doubt to find Tony himself. 

"Hey—" Tony reached out to tap Cap lightly on the shoulder, to catch his attention, and then realized what a mistake that had been when he flinched violently. 

Tony tried to backtrack, but Cap intercepted him, gripped him tightly around the wrist and flipped him over his shoulder. Tony landed hard on his back, the air leaving him in a whoosh. He brought his hands up placatingly, showing he wasn't armed almost on instinct. 

Cap relaxed when he realized who Tony was. "Oh,” he said, looking quite unhappy to find him, considering Tony was the one he was looking for. “There you are."

For a moment Tony didn't bother getting up. "Hey," he repeated, this time letting his irritation bleed into his voice. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

“You left without your security detail,” Cap said crossly. 

“Fury sent you?” Tony asked, pushing himself to his feet. His elbows were soaked through with mud now, and his back was damp where he’d landed on the wet ground. He scowled and wrung the filthy water from his shirt sleeves.

“Nope,” Bucky said. “Cap just felt guilty.” 

“Oh,” Tony said. Interesting. “I thought you _didn’t want to babysit_.”

“We’re not here to babysit,” Cap said firmly. “We’re here to take you back. Where are your partners?” 

Tony scowled and crossed his arms stubbornly in front of him. Of course, Captain America _had_ to be difficult.

“That’s need to know,” Tony said, voice rising in irritation, “and you don’t need to know, because you’re not taking us anywhere—”

“The hell we aren’t!”

“Tony!” Pepper shouted from up the hill, and all three of them turned to look at her. “Behind you, you idiot—”

Ah, shit.

“Hands in the air!” someone shouted, in sloppy but understandable English. Which meant that they knew who they were, or at least had an idea, all thanks going out to the man _wearing the damn flag_ on their doorstep. “You’re trespassing. You will have to come with us.”

"Oh, this is just perfect," Tony said, glaring at Cap but slowly raising his hands none the less. Captain America shrugged and did the same, and the soldiers shifted uncomfortably, glancing confusedly around as though they'd been expecting much more resistance. 

Tony frowned as well. He'd been following Captain America's exploits—from a purely _professional_ standpoint, of course, because Tony made it his business to know about pretty much anything General Fury tried to keep under wraps, and that included the classified missions as well as the propaganda stunts, and he had to say he was...a little underwhelmed, actually. 

He'd expected at least a little punching before Cap just _gave up_.

Not that Tony was being particularly daring just now, with several guns trained on him...but then he wasn't the supersoldier here, either.

When the guards motioned for them to walk, Tony did what he was told, and despite the fact that he was still half-expecting Captain America to do _something_ , he only followed along peacefully as well. 

The soldiers herded them toward the road, and by the time they’d made it to the bridge three more men had joined them with Pepper in tow. The castle loomed, looking much more intimidating in size up close, the weathered stone patchy and glistening white with salt from the bay. They lead them across to the front gate. It was dark inside the halls of the castle, and the guards dragged the enormous doors shut behind them with considerable effort, and then bolted them with a heavy bar. Tony scowled.

“I can’t believe that Captain America is this _worthless_ ,” Tony snapped, soldiers be damned, because this couldn’t have gone more wrong if Tony had run up to the doors and thrown himself at their feet, and Cap was _putting Tony’s people in danger_.

“Quiet down,” Cap said. “You’re making a scene.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from the walking, talking flag,” Tony said. “You ruined this for _us_ , not the other way around.” 

"We're inside, aren't we?" Cap said under his breath, and Tony huffed angrily.

"Yeah," Tony said, "and a lot of good that will do me, now that they know we're here."

"That's fine," Cap said.

“It’s not fine!” Tony hissed. 

“And you had a better way inside?” Bucky asked.

“Yes,” Tony responded immediately, then: “Sort of. Rhodey was...”

He trailed off as they stopped short in a large entryway. It was an amazing place—fitting for a castle, no doubt—and there were open archways leading in every direction, as well as a pair of staircases, one grand one leading upward, and one tiny, dark set of stairs leading down. 

Tony had a pretty good idea which way they were headed. The soldiers stopped for a quick exchange with their commanding officer—and Tony had never wished he knew Italian more than he did at this moment. 

A moment later they were being rushed down the stairs, with two soldiers ahead and four behind. Tony had only a flight of stairs to wonder why there were so many soldiers wandering around even a wealthy man’s private property before they were shoved toward the cell block. The guards shoved them inside none-too gently, and the cell door rasped ominously in protest as it’s rusted hinges worked closed. 

The cell was small, hardly large enough for the four of them to comfortably stay. The smell of brine was almost overwhelmingly strong, and every so often he could feel a little mist of spray through a tiny barred window in the top corner of the room as a particularly large wave broke on the rocks outside. The window looked like it could bolt shut from the outside, probably to keep the dungeon from flooding during a storm, but now it hung open in a failed attempt to let the room air out. 

There were crates stacked in the corners, piled almost to the ceiling with pickled vegetables and meats in slimy jars. It looked like the room hadn’t been used as anything other than a second pantry in a long while. 

Pepper stalked over to one of the crates in the corner and sat down heavily. “Well,” she said, “this still isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to us on an expedition.”

Tony had to appreciate the optimism.

“Really?” Bucky asked.

Pepper shrugged, “Well, we don’t publish the failures—”

“No, we don’t,” Tony said, cutting her off. “So forget ever seeing your face in a _Marvels_ issue. This one’s never leaving the notebook.”

The kid didn’t look nearly as disappointed as Tony had expected him to. “We’re not done yet,” he said cockily. Tony rolled his eyes at the kid’s enthusiasm. 

Cap was ignoring them all, making a short circuit of the room, inspecting the walls, the crates, and the small window in the corner. Finally he returned back to the cell door to inspect the bars.

“Were you aware that there is an Italian general on his way here?” Cap asked, surprising them all. 

“No,” Pepper said. “How did you—Can you speak Italian?”

“I speak enough,” he said. He gripped the bars and gave them a little shake, like he was testing how sturdy they held to the cement floor. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t want to be here when he arrives.”

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Bucky asked. 

“I’m getting you out,” he said simply, “and you’re going to get the keys.”

"Wow. Your plan is _inspired_. I feel so secure," Tony said. "Good thing you guys are here."

"Will you stop whining and help me with this," Cap said, grabbing one of the crates from the far wall and stacking it in front of the cell door.

Tony moved to help, though he paused after setting the first one down. "You know this isn't going to keep them out," Tony said.

"It's not meant to," Cap said simply. "I just need a boost." 

Once they’d piled the boxes high enough, Cap climbed up onto the stack of crates. He brushed his hands along the tops of the bars, where the metal looked like it was just slightly dented out of shape—probably damaged a long time ago and deemed minor enough to not bother fixing. It provided a perfect hand-hold, though. Cap grabbed the cell by the top corner, planted his foot just above where the hinges attached to the stone, and pulled.

The bars creaked loudly, the squealing sound of metal on metal as the top of the door cleared the doorframe, and then with one final groan Cap wrenched the metal back to make a small hole in the upper corner of the door.

"Wow," Pepper said, and Tony had to agree. Obviously, Captain America was no slouch, but he hadn’t anticipated him being quite so… strong. Tony had always thought that the rumors were just that—propaganda for the masses. The photographs carefully edited, and the impressive feats greatly exaggerated… the physique...

Tony cleared his throat, intent to keep that line of thought to himself. 

"Not to discredit your plan or anything, because watching you bend a iron bar with your bare hands was really a treat, but I'm not going to fit through there."

"Bucky can," Cap said, "and Ms. Potts, if you're up for it."

"Better than waiting around here," Pepper said, hopping up from the crate and dusting her hands on her trousers.

Cap gestured for Bucky to go through first, cupping his hands to give him a leg up. The kid was a lot more flexible than he looked, and it only took a few seconds for him to squirm through the hole. Pepper was thinner, though a good deal taller than he was, but it still wasn’t difficult to help her through the gap and safely onto the other side. 

"We'll be right back," Bucky promised.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” Cap warned sternly, like he was anticipating that the warning was necessary. The kid grinned, and started for the stairs. 

“Don’t go anywhere, Boss,” Pepper called behind her. “And play nice.”

“Ha-ha,” he called out behind her, “hilarious.”

“They’ll be fine,” Cap said, when the door at the top of the stair clicked quietly shut behind them. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Tony said. “Pepper doesn’t look it, but she’s tough. I’m more worried for you friend.” 

Cap chuckled. “Well, I can tell what you see in her,” he said, and Tony nodded. 

“She’s a hell of a writer. You wouldn’t _believe_ what a god-send it’s been having someone to write our stories who can actually hold their own. Our past experiences with old writers had been… less successful, before we found Pepper.”

“A hell of a writer, huh?” Cap said, sounding long-suffering. “You sure know how to compliment your girl.”

Tony paused, had to take a moment to even process what he’d meant, and when it finally clicked for him, he burst out laughing. Cap, for his part, looked equally confused and offended, though it was clear he didn’t know what he ought to be offended about. 

“We’re not together,” Tony said, and when Cap’s face registered surprise, he laughed again. “You know, I’m not sure where you got that idea. We hardly act it.”

“I—” Cap fumbled for a moment, and then shrugged half-heartedly. “I guess I was jumping to conclusions.”

Tony tsked. “That’ll get you into trouble,” he said. Tony sat down on one of the crates that were stacked beside the cell door, and only after he’d settled did he notice that Cap was being very quiet. Tony had a moment to wonder if he’d somehow managed to offend him, before Cap sighed heavily and dropped down on one of the boxes across from him. 

“You’re not the person I thought you were,” Cap said. 

“Is that a compliment?” Tony asked, because from the way he’d said it, he sounded almost… disappointed. Cap shrugged, and Tony was willing to let it go. “Don’t worry about it. To be honest, you’re not what I expected either, although I probably should have known to take the propaganda with a grain of salt.”

Cap rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started on that. I’d rather swallow my shield than sit through those stunts, believe me, but—” he stopped off abruptly when the faint report of gunfire echoed from upstairs. Tony stood immediately, gripping the bars. 

When the door swung open, slamming hard against the back wall, and his heart hammered in his chest until he realized it was Pepper, not the guards, who was flying down the cellblock. She ran down the stairs two at a time, and in one hand she clutched a key. 

“Where’s Bucky?” Cap asked immediately, and Pepper shook her head. Her hands were shaking slightly when she slipped the key into the lock, but she had them out in a moment nonetheless. 

“I’m not sure. We got separated,” she said, which Tony assumed meant he’d slipped off somewhere while they were searching for the key ring. She flinched slightly when more gunfire sounded, almost unnoticeable to anyone who didn’t know her. “Though if I had to guess…” 

“Stay behind me,” Cap said, wrenching the lid off one of the crates as though it would be anything but a pitiful substitute for his shield. If Pepper had managed to find _that_ along with the key, well, _then_ they’d be in business. “We’re going to find my shield, find Bucky—”

“And the amulet,” Tony said, and Cap gave him an exasperated look as he headed for the stairs. 

“The amulet? Really?” he said. He threw the door at the top open, clearly intending to take anyone there by surprise, but no gunfire followed and he dashed into the hallway. Tony followed with Pepper shortly behind. She had slipped the key away somewhere, no doubt in case they needed it again, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. 

The gunfire was clearly coming from somewhere on the ground floor, but if Tony had to guess where the amulet would be kept, it would be with the Baron. And that, no doubt, would be on the top floor, in the master bedroom, or the study—

He made for the main staircase, ignoring Captain America’s warning hiss to come back and stick with the group. Tony could hear Pepper’s footsteps following shortly behind him, and Cap only hesitated a moment before he followed as well. 

“Tony, damn it, be careful,” Cap said, and Tony ignored him, already headed for the first door at the hallway. 

It lead into a beautifully decorated master bedroom. He stepped inside without a moment’s glance, too harried to be cautious, half-distracted as another report of gunfire sounded _much too close_ at their backs, and it was an _amateur mistake_. He didn’t even see the blow coming. 

Tony came back to himself a moment later to a blinding pain, blinking away stars, and for a moment everything was solid and unmoving. Then, he was being hauled to his feet, someone shouting in his ear, and it took a moment through the nausea and the ache to resolve the noise into words. 

“Hands behind your backs, hold still or I’ll shoot him.” 

The man holding him up was just another soldier, and Tony thought that he would probably remember to be embarrassed once he’d gotten his footing, but neither Captain America nor Pepper looked angry, just concerned, as the soldier’s moved to tie their arms behind them. Tony was quickly manhandled into the same, and then they were dragging him out into the hallway again.

The baron was standing at the head of the stairs, looking smugly between them and Captain America’s partner, hands bound behind him as well. Tony cursed under his breath, and he must have heard him, because his smile curved ever so slightly wider.

“Take the woman and the boy to my private dining room,” he said. “I’ve just received word that the general has arrived in town. He’ll no doubt be here soon...I suspect the general will not be interested in meeting with them, anyway. And as for the other two… we will make sure they do not escape again.”

One of the soldiers grabbed Tony by the rope binding his wrists. They were clearly taking no chances on Cap himself, as three soldiers fell in around him. Tony saw Cap and the kid exchange some sort of silent communication, before he and Pepper were led up the stairs. Tony hoped that they would be willing to let Pepper go unharmed, as unlikely at that was. 

He was practically thrown down the stairs to the cellar, and it was only the man’s grip on his arms and his determination to stay on his feet that kept Tony from falling. 

The man dragging Tony along shoved him roughly toward the cell, and with his hands tied he landed hard on the floor, unable to catch himself. They followed Tony inside at a leisurely pace. The baron hooked one foot under Tony's stomach and rolled him over onto his back none-too-gently, then pressed the heel of his boot into Tony's thigh to keep him there.

"I have already sent word to the General that you would be here," he began slowly, "and I imagine that he will expect to see you when he arrives, Mr. Stark." He glanced back over his shoulder, "Captain. I would not want to disappoint him."

He beckoned one of his men forward and yanked his sidearm out of its holster. "And I will not have you running again," he said.

Tony jerked back, trying to pull away, but he couldn’t get the leverage. The breath had gone out of him when they’d shoved him to the floor. The man just ground the heel of his boot down, holding him in place, and leveled the gun with Tony's knee.

_Fuck_ , Tony thought, and turned his head away.

Cap snapped his head back to connect with one of the guard's noses, sweeping the other's legs as he wrenched out of his grip. He slammed his shoulder into the Baron's just as he pulled the trigger.

The bullet sparked harmlessly off the floor next to Tony's leg instead, so close he could feel the heat of it.

The third guard smashed the butt of his rifle into the side of Cap’s head. He reeled and dropped to one knee, balance suddenly wobbly, and to two when he hit him again.

“Stop!” Tony shouted, when the guard raised his rifle a third time, and Cap went down. “Jesus, stop!” 

Something seemed to register in him that time, and the guard hesitated, arms still upraised. He backed out of the cell, and the baron slammed the door shut behind him, the lock snapping into place. Tony could see his hands shaking, each of the guards looking uneasy with themselves, when he turned toward the stairs without a word. 

As soon as the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, Tony rolled onto his side and pushed his arms down, trying to pull them around in front. The rope burned on his wrists, and the entire maneuver would be a lot easier if his ribs didn’t ache so much, but he managed to get his arms in front of him. 

Tony kneeled down beside the captain’s head. Cap didn’t look like he was bleeding—in fact, he looked fine—but it was hard to tell with the cowl in the way. He could appreciate the desire for secrecy, and he didn’t want to unmask him if he didn’t have to... 

Still, Tony wanted him to _die_ even less than that. 

“Cap?” he asked quietly, giving his shoulder a shake. He let his fingers slide over the outside of the cowl—and there was going to be a hell of a bump, for sure, but it didn’t feel much worse than that. There were a couple of pieces of blonde hair poking out from beneath the edge of the cowl where they’d been knocked loose. 

He was just working up the courage to pull back the mask, because Cap could be bleeding from some awful head wound under there and Tony would never know, when a quiet moan stopped him. “Cap?” he asked again, and that got him another reaction, the man’s eyes flickering beneath his eyelids. 

“All right?” Cap mumbled, a few seconds before opening his eyes at a squint, like even the dim light of the cell was too bright. It took Tony a second to realize what he’d meant.

“ _I’m_ fine. You’re—” an idiot, he wanted to say, but now that he was coming to he...really did seem fine, actually. Maybe that super-healing wasn’t as much of a crock as Tony had been lead to believe. “You’re okay?” Tony asked instead.

Cap tried to sit up, before seeming to realize that his hands were still tied. Tony snapped around, and grabbed one of the jars that were stacked behind him. “Here,” he said, breaking the jar quietly against one of the bars. It smelled strongly of vinegar, but the glass cut all the same, and Tony had sliced through his own bindings in a matter of seconds. 

“How long was I out?” Cap asked, as Tony helped him up and cut through the bindings around his wrists. 

“Not long,” Tony said. Even as he said it, Cap scowled, like he didn’t agree with Tony’s assessment. One hand went up to the side of his head, although he seemed more interested in the cowl than the growing lump beneath it. 

“I didn’t sneak a peek, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tony said. Cap glanced over, looking a little embarrassed, and maybe a little… guilty. Mostly, though, he looked relieved. “Listen,” Tony said. “I don’t want to give you the impression that I need to be saved.” Cap scoffed, but Tony pressed on, “But I’m not that proud. So...thanks.”

Cap actually looked a little stunned to hear the thanks, which...mostly just made Tony feel like a jerk. He pushed himself to his feet and then stooped to offer Cap a hand.

“Now as well as our escape attempt worked the first time, something tells me our host will be less than amicable when he comes back, so…”

The door at the top of the stairs creaked open again, much too soon, and Tony swore. 

“It’ll be okay,” Steve promised, like he hadn’t just been beaten to the floor minutes ago, and stepped forward to stand in front of him.

Tony listened to the hollow sound of footsteps approaching, glaring stonily at the baron and his guards as they stopped in front of the cell. The baron eyed the broken jar and cut bindings with distaste, but he quickly plastered on a false grin when he addressed them. 

“Our guest of honor has arrived much earlier than we anticipated,” the baron said. The guards looked incredibly nervous as they drew the cell doors back. Whoever this general was had left quite an impression on them. 

Tony stalled, confused, when he saw Pepper at the top of the stairs. She had a peculiar look on her face. She looked like she was trying to ...suppress a smile?

And then the general stepped into the stairwell, and Tony very nearly choked. 

He kept his composure, only just, as Rhodey strut down the stairs, in full uniform, while the baron’s guards all stood ramrod straight and saluted. He was carrying Cap’s shield, admiring it like a trophy he had won, and didn’t even spare a glance in Tony’s direction. Tony glanced at Pepper, who was doing her best not to smile. Bucky, for all his excitability, looked to be doing a fairly good job of keeping his poker face in check. 

One of the soldiers stepped forward and asked something in rapid Italian. Rhodey paused for a long moment, a stony expression on his face clearly intimidating the man. More likely than not, he was trying to translate the phrase in his head.

Rhodey replied in Italian, and he man nodded quickly and jumped to follow his orders, grabbing Steve and Tony by the arms and dragging them away from the cell block. Rhodey’s Italian was better than Tony’s, but certainly not by that much. His accent was terrible, but if the guards noticed they didn’t say anything, clearly too intimidated by the uniform to question him. 

Before Tony knew it he was being poked in the back with the barrel of a rifle, edged toward the main doors, and one of the better English-speaking guards ordered for him to walk. They opened the doors and Rhodey walked out immediately without pausing to be certain they followed. 

They were led by a measly group of six soldiers through the front gates, easy as they pleased, and if someone had told Tony and hour ago that he was going to be merely _walking_ out of the castle, he would have laughed in their face. The doors swung shut behind them, and Rhodey led them all the way to the end of the bridge and down the road, where the jeep that apparently hadn’t raised _any_ suspicion despite clearly not being Italian-made was waiting patiently for them. The soldiers escorting them grew more restless all the while, clearly confused with their general’s intentions. 

Rhodey paused when they reached the car, and gave an order that seemed to confuse the soldiers even further, enough that one even began to protest. By that point it was too late. Bucky made the first move, planting a knee into the nearest soldier’s gut, and he had barely reacted before Rhodey was tossing the shield to Cap and throwing himself at the nearest soldier, wrestling away his gun before he could even fire it. 

Tony divested the soldier nearest to him of his weapon before he could even raise it, and by the time he’d turned back, the other men were lying in the dirt road unconscious. 

Tony laughed outright at the absurdity of it, even as Pepper was grabbing him by the arm and dragging him toward the back of the car. Rhodey had the engine turned over before he’d even reached it, and Cap and his sidekick had barely hopped on the back before he was gunning the engine. 

“Where did you find the uniform to impersonate an Italian General?” Tony asked incredulously, leaning up from the backseat. Bucky climbed in beside him, nudging him aside so that he could sit in the middle, and Cap followed on his left with more balance and grace than anyone should have managed at forty miles per hour.

“On the back of an Italian General,” Rhodey said. He was still headed down the road, in the direction of the nearest town, and Pepper’s head snapped around to look at him when he said it. 

“Oh, we should get off the road,” Pepper said, already pointing off into the relatively clear field up ahead.

“Yeah,” Rhodey said, “quickly, before they find—”

Somewhere behind them, not coming from the castle this time but instead from the direction of the small town, an alarm bell began to ring. 

“A naked general?” Bucky finished for him, sniggering. He swiveled in his seat as though he might be able to watch the excitement from here. 

Rhodey veered off the road and into the trees, forgoing where Pepper had pointed for an area where the ground was a little drier, and the jeep bounced on the rough terrain before disappearing behind the tree cover, leaving no tracks to show where they’d gone. 

Once he’d put some distance between them, Rhodey slowed to a somewhat safer speed, and glanced over at Tony. 

“Here, Boss,” he said, reaching into his front pocket. “Courtesy of the baron.” 

He pulled out a beautifully crafted amulet by the chain. It was made from beautifully cast silver, a large pristine ruby inlaid in the center, and framed by a spiral of carefully etched symbols.

Tony glared dubiously at the amulet, and bit experimentally at the edge.

“There’s no magic in this,” he scoffed, letting the chain hang from his fingers. Pepper reached out to take it.

“It is lovely,” she said, “but I think this is another dead end.”

“Keep it,” Tony said. “Suits you.” She laid it flat against her neck to model it, and Tony nodded approvingly. 

“Are you kidding me,” Cap said flatly, leaning up from the back seat. “You came all this way for that?”

“You think we find the Fountain of Youth every time we step outside?” Tony asked. “We’d sell a hell of a lot more magazines, if that were the case.” 

“I don’t know,” Pepper said. She popped the glove compartment and pulled out a small notebook, and then laid the amulet down on her knee to make a quick sketch of it, bumpy as it was on the rough terrain. “I think this will be one for the books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is certainly still being written, but if you haven't guessed by now, it's not being written regularly. Thank you for your patience!


End file.
